


Rust

by LPM



Series: Blood Justice [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Original, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Bloodletting, Boys Kissing, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Detective Derek, Detective Stiles, Detectives, F/M, Het and Slash, Love/Hate, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Male Slash, Minor Original Character(s), Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, Slash, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Vampires, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:59:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LPM/pseuds/LPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the bad blood between Derek and Stiles nearly gets Stiles killed, things between the not-so-dynamic duo are pretty rough. While the Force scrambles to catch up to vampire murderers, the brothers themselves deal with some problems that are centuries in the making. With squabbles and struggles gumming up the works, not to mention the sizzling tension between them, will Derek and Stiles catch Antonin and Asimov before they achieve the darker and deadlier goal they've been working towards in the 2 decades since Witch's Walk?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rust

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I'm like stupid happy that y'all are enjoying my little story so far. I'm glad you guys like reading my long-winded story enough to stick with it and me. I hope you'll hang on while I take you through this amateur foray into crime writing...sort-of crime writing >>. Um. Some things. I'm not sure how many of you are up to date with Teen Wolf, and don't worry I won't spoil you, but for those of you who are caught up, I just wanted to say here that this chapter is dedicated to you-know-who and its a shoddy dedication but that episode was terrible sad and I thought that person deserved much better. I'm sad to see them go and, of course, I'm going to continue to write this, as always, as if pretty much none of the canon was going on. 
> 
> And I'm sorry its so long between updates. I'm in school and, well, I've got loooooooots of stuff to do. It won't get any better for now either as I'm entering preparation for finals and shouldn't actually even be writing this right now because I have...just...a stupid amount of work to do. But I'm trying to update this and my other story (Mr. Sourwolf and Family, if you haven't already, please do go check it out!) before I really have to knuckle down and drown myself in the law. Anyway, please do enjoy this chapter of the series!

_It was on a stroll through the sleepy market square of his village that Ludovic Argent first saw her. She was mysterious; the first thing that drew him to her was this. When she spoke, it was with the flavor of a foreign land, in a low husky voice that sent tremors down his spine._

_"My name is Golnesa" she told him. And he was lost._

_Four year later, he earned her heart and took her to wife. His best friend and confidant Arsenic Amicus, beheld the loving couple and bequeathed upon them a home in which they could begin their wedded bliss. Years passed, and Golnesa blessed Ludo with three sons; the twins, Marcel and Rui, and the youngest Frederic._

_When the Argents had been married but seven years, a terrible thing came to pass. The Trappers came to their village, wielding the dreaded **Malleus Maleficarum** and sending fear into the hearts of men. With their secret knowledge of those who did darkness, they seized Golnesa Argent, who they claimed to have tracked from Armenia. Her charge, of course, was witchcraft._

_She was put to the flame, and died with her beloved Ludo's name on her lips. The Trappers sought to take the children as well, claiming them to have been spawned from the devil's most terrible of corporeal servants. Miraculously, however, Arsenic Amicus was able to intervene and save their lives._

_Eternally grateful, Ludovic Argent swore a blood pledge. To place his hands, and those of all Argents thenceforth, in the service of the Amicus clan._

_In 1730, both families left France for shores unknown. The Amicus clan built wealth and prestige, and the Argents grew in the shadows along with them. Ludovic Argent died of old age, after spending his life hunting those who had killed his beloved Golnesa. The three Argent sons, all born with their mother's magical gift, learned to wield their powers well. They used them to aid the Amicus family, but also to fight the actual forces of darkness in the world; an attempt to salvage their mother's good name._

_An Argent witch is born into a code, passed down through the generations. They follow the will of their liege family, the Amicus clan, but also a solemn vow to fight the darkness. They swear in blood and bind themselves to the family's eternal mission,_

**_"Agents contre le blasphème, ceux qui les battre les ténèbres"_ **

_Agents against blasphemy, those who battle darkness._

* * *

  
When he first wakes up, he sees things through a hazy film. The world is all shapes, blurring into one another and making sounds he only half remembers as having meaning. He feels, above anything else, a dully throbbing pain in all of his limbs. It is, however, the sharp agony radiating in waves from his arm, that sends him back into the merciful and painless oblivion of sleep.

When next he wakes up, 2 weeks have gone by.

"Somebody get me a medic." he warbles feebly around the parchment-paper dryness of his throat. He cracks his eyes open and slides them around the sterile serenity of his hospital room. Warmth pressed against his side alerts him to the presence of another body lying hunched over, half on the bed and half on an uncomfortable looking chair. Strawberry blonde locks spill bright and wild, stark against the white of his hospital bedding.

"Lydia..." he croaks, summoning the energy to nudge the sleeping woman. She stirs sluggishly, making uncharacteristic groans that rise muffled from the tangled cocoon of hair and linen her face is still pressed into.  
"Come on Lydia, I'm dying for some water. My throat feels like its burning" Stiles coaxes, watching as Lydia gives one last groan and rises.

"Finally." she says, voice sleep-scratchy. Her eyes betray her bland words, deep green and filled with worry as they trace the contours of his face.

"How long was I out?" he asks, sitting up with a grimace. His body aches, but only faintly, which registers as strange to him. He doesn't remember much about how he got to the hospital, only that some faceless vampire had gotten the jump on him somehow and beaten him bloody outside the Argent house, after that is a painful blur.

"Two weeks" Lydia says briskly, pushing her tangled mass of curls away from her face, "they said it should have been longer but someone fed you vamp blood, healed up the worst of the internal damage so all the medics had to do was patch up the rest."

Stiles' eyes narrow at her words and he rolls the new info around his head while Lydia, after pouring him the requested water, goes about reapplying her ruined makeup and taming her sleep-tousled hair.

"I'm gonna go tell the nurse you're up, Cragan will want to see you soon too and, brace yourself, cuz he's not happy with the two of you." Lydia warns him, before standing and exiting the room.

For one moment, Stiles is confused as to why Cragan would be upset and who else gets to bear the force of the Captain's infamous temper alongside him. Then he remembers, and groans in dread.

Derek.

He'd completely forgotten about the catastrophic argument they'd had before Stiles had gone to the Argent house. The fact that he'd been alone on the job and entering a situation with even the slightest possibility of danger, would send Cragan through the roof. Especially because he'd had to give Stiles and Derek a warning about teamwork just earlier that same day.

"Not good..." Stiles mutters to himself.

Before he can work himself into a mild panic, the door opens to admit a white-clad man who must be the nurse because Lydia follows him in looking irritable.

"I called Cragan and he said to just take you home as soon as you're cleared and he'll have words with you when you come back in." she says, "I also called your ridiculous partner to let him know you're up and all he said was 'ok' and he hung up!"

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard, he gives himself a mild headache. Typical Derek. Even when Stiles had nearly been made into man-mash, all his parter could say was 'ok' after learning he was still alive and kicking.

"Ugh. Dick." Stiles says as the nurse goes about checking him up. He's so fed up with this treatment and he decides then and there that, for at least as long as he's on leave, he's determined to not let Derek Hale piss him off anymore.

* * *

 

Stiles' doctor, a stern woman whose magical tutelage is as impressive as the diplomas from Johns Hopkins, Yale, and Columbia that adorn the walls of her office, allows him to be discharged two days after he wakes up. She also gives him another week of leave and pins him with the scariest evil eye when he tries to wheedle her down to just two days.

"Your internal organs were reduced to a mad tangle of blood and tissue. You were luckier than even I can believe, that you had even a little vampire blood in you because otherwise you would have died!" she had snapped.

"This is the second major injury you've sustained in just as many months Mr. Stilinski. I'd rather you let yourself heal fully before undoing all my hard work again, and before you open that big mouth of yours to argue, I'll let you know that your Captain agrees."

Thus chastised, Stiles had no choice but to let himself be bundled into Lydia's car, toting a bag of poultices for his wounds and pills for his pain.

"Well, here's to a week of sitting around," he sighs, when he and Lydia are in her apartment, where he'll be staying while in recovery. Lydia gives him a withering look from the kitchen, as she pours herself a tall glass of water.

"Don't be dramatic Stiles" she sighs, walking over and plonking a glass of water on the coffee table in front of him, "it's only a week and you **need** it. Just do some revision in the downtime. You never know, you could find something you might have missed."

Stiles scowls as he measures out a spoon of the bitter-tasting medicinal powder his doctor had included in his "care package".

"Yeah Yeah, productivity" he grouses, and promptly begins to chug his glass of water after mixing in the powder. When he's done he pulls a face, the medicine is really terrible tasting, and collapses back against the couch that would be his bed for the next week. Both of them are silent for a moment, then Stiles straightens up and fixes Lydia with his most serious look.

"So tell me. What happened?" he asks, finally back down to business. Lydia raises one perfectly sculpted brow at him but replies with matching gravity,

"Allison Argent, the daughter of the current acting CEO, was coming back from her nightly jog. That's when she found you, bleeding out in front of the Argent house. Allison's mother, Victoria, runs a *501(c)(3) nonprofit as an Argent Corp. subsidiary branch. Before you ask, they checked it out, pulled the 1023, the bylaws, the registrations, everything; all clean according to what they found." Lydia explains. Stiles frowns, processing the info.

"The company rehabs Involuntaries, puts them through assimilation training and helps with the trauma. They were part of that initiative the Governor brought up a few years ago? That one about getting rogue vampires help so the streets were safer?" Lydia continues, and Stiles vaguely recalls a series of commercials that oozed insincerity and thinly veiled anti-vamp racism.

"Yeah, I remember those. Wasn't that one basketball player with the Involuntary son in one of them?" he asks. Lydia nods,

"Yeah, I think so. Anyway, what they're saying is that one of those Involuntaries that Mrs. Argent was helping rehabilitate, tracked her home, saw you there, panicked, and beat you up before escaping. I think they said that that vampire was probably also who gave you the blood. Out of some small bit of remorse."

Stiles nods, that made sense. Involuntaries are humans who are turned into vampires against their wills; they usually ended up unable to bear the trauma and killing themselves, or dying from something they didn't know could be harmful, or becoming menaces of the city streets. After the Bloody Decade, big cities were flooded with Involuntaries, which led to such a big problem that it became a major running point for the current governor of the state. That Victoria Argent runs a nonprofit company geared towards that issue shouldn't give him pause for suspicion.   
....but it does anyway. Even though the Argent story checks out, every bone in Stiles' body is telling him that there really is something fishy happening with the Argents. He doesn't know what it is, but he does know to keep a close watch, maybe someone will slip up.

 

* * *

 

She'd arrived at his door wearing a trench coat, a smirk, and nothing else. He'd been unimpressed by the cliche, but forgave it in favor of surveying what a thousand big ones had bought him for the night.

He'd been considerably more please by what he saw.

She said her name was Amber, but he didn't care. He never cared. All he wanted was the warmth of her body and the scent of her blood as it rushed frantically in her veins.

"Come on, Come on," she begs, now, as he plays with her; but Asimov won't give in, wants to draw the night out until he's satisfied. It is clear, from the surprise lying beneath the arousal, that Amber has never had a client make her feel this way.

"Not yet" Asimov murmurs, smiling absently, rubbing his thumb against the hot wetness of Amber's womanhood. She almost squeals and arches against his hand, breath coming out in short bursts as he continues his ministrations. Asimov leans up close and nuzzles her face, breathing deep against the blood-flushed skin of her cheek.

Delphine had blushed easily.

He remembers, as he always does, as he has for so long, the way her face had looked the first time they had lain together. How she had looked at him so trustingly, even though she was clearly frightened. In those times, women knew nothing of the carnal arts outside of tales and raunchy bar-talk, but Delphine was a respectable girl and innocent when she came to him.

"Will it hurt?" she had asked as her face had flushed bright red; and he had gathered her close to him, pressed a kiss against her forehead, and told her the truth.

"Yes." he had said, "they say it will be painful this first time, but then never again."

Delphine had been silent for a moment, but then she had looked at him again, determination burning a fire in her gaze.

"I am afraid," she had said, "but I love you, and I trust you. I could think of no other man to give my maidenhead. I know you will make it as painless as you possibly can."

And with her trust in him thus established, they had made love for the first time. Delphine had cried just as she clung to him with shaking hands. She had gasped and shivered and sighed, her sweet voice echoing in the silence of the night.

Even now, 290-odd years later, he still remembers that night. Every time he's taken another woman to his bed, he remembers. Whether she be dark haired like Delphine or otherwise. In all his years as a vampire, Asimov has never been swallowed whole by a person, never been unable to escape the specter of his Delphine when embracing another.

Except once.  
Once when he nearly lost his mind and drank from an officer of the Force as he lay on the ground, the pain evident in his face.

Once as he was overcome by something inside him that had lay dormant for 293 years, since the last time he'd seen Delphine's face.

* * *

  
When the week is almost up, Stiles is ready to climb the walls. Lydia's place is nice, but he's going stir-crazy sitting around doing nothing. He had tried reading over his old files and reports on the case, but that had only taken him one day, and he hadn't found anything new to use. He'd spent another day trying to "take in the city" but had ended up nearly getting trampled by a herd of tourists in Times Square and that had tired him out sufficiently to send him straight back to Lydia's couch.

On Wednesday, Rodriguez meets him for some coffee at a nearby Starbucks and lets Stiles grill him for two hours on what's going on in the office; but, since Rodriguez isn't on the Amicus case, he doesn't really know any of the specifics. Eventually, Stiles gives up and they chat about the rest of their old team before Rodriguez has to get back.

Friday rolls around and Stiles is beyond his capacity to sit around. After Lydia breezes out, he dashes around the apartment, getting ready. He has a plan. He's going to just pop into the office for a "couple more files" and maybe while he's there, he can overhear some of what's going on.

"This is a great plan!" he says to himself, as he hits the street.

"Probably not" Ned, Lydia's apartment building's doorman, deadpans as Stiles walks by.

Stiles blows a raspberry. What does Ned know about anything anyway.

When Stiles walks into the office, it feels as if he's been gone for a long time. Even the receptionist looks somewhat relieved to see him. He smiles at her as he walks by towards the elevators.

"Stiles?" someone says behind him, while he's waiting for an elevator to come down, and he turns around to see Scott giving him the best 'confused puppy' look he's ever seen.

"Scotty with the body!" Stiles greets the other man cheerfully, riding high on 'I'm back in the office bitches' cheer. Scott, however, doesn't share his enthusiasm.

"Dude, if the Captain sees you, your ass is grass" he cautions, looking genuinely concerned. Stiles scoffs, stepping aside to allow some people to get off the elevator that has just arrived. Then he and Scott step into the car.

"I'm just here to drop off some of my files" Stiles says, waving his armful of papers "and pick up new ones to go over. It'll be fiiiiine!" He says. Scott gives him a dubious 'if you say so' look, but doesn't comment.

"See you at my celebratory, let's get wasted cuz Stiles isn't dead, party later buddy!" Stiles says when they get out of the elevator. Scott waves at him and turns to stride down the hall.

Alone again, Stiles decides to hit the TARU room, where people are less likely to know that he's technically not supposed to be back on the job. Even thinking about it makes him roll his eyes. Truthfully, he was all the way healed by Tuesday and just needed Wednesday to sleep off the rest of the healing. Even now, he's good to go, ship shape, good as new, any other analogy that meant he wasn't on the verge of death anymore.

"Danny! There's my man!" he says, effecting a jocular tone when he spots the dimpled techie in the hall outside the main tech office. Danny raises an eyebrow at him,

"Aren't you supposed to be near death?" he asks in a no-nonsense voice. Stiles deflates slightly, so the tech guys were told too.

"Weeeeeellll..." he begins, sidling closer to Danny who, shaking his head, puts one hand up to halt Stiles mid-excuse making.

"Stop. I don't care. What do you want?" he asks. Stiles brightens again,

"not much, just wanna know what's going on in the case for the past week?"

Danny blinks, then shrugs

"I can't tell you" he says. Stiles immediately begins to beg, placing his hands together and making his biggest puppydog eyes (thank God he'd learned from watching Scott how to do them).

"Come on Dannyyyy" he whines, "we're pals aren't we?"

Danny rolls his eyes, "no I really can't tell you, because I don't know." he says exasperatedly.

"There's this crazy data glitch that has us all up here scratching our heads. It's like someone is logging crazy hours on our databases, but it doesn't match up with any of the team members'....ugh why am I telling you this? Anyway, the point is that we're swamped up here and I haven't heard anything about your case all week. Satisfied?"

Stiles groans in frustration. It figures, the week he really needs the gossipy tech nerds to know something, the entire system implodes and they're stuck doing some other thing that doesn't concern him.

"Man! I really needed an update, just something to keep me sane through the weekend until i can get back on the job!" he grouses. Danny's eyes flick to something behind Stiles and he says,

"well then maybe you should ask your partner." before waving at Derek and entering the tech office.

Stiles stays frozen, facing away from where he knows Derek is standing.

A few moments of silence pass and then Derek speaks.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he asks, and something in his tone dumps a flood of irritation on Stiles' previous good mood. He turns around to face his partner, hip jutting out and arms crossed, full-on irritation mode initiated.

"just dropping off papers, not that you really give a shit about me." he snaps and watches as irritation blooms on Derek's face.

"What." he says in that irritating uninflected way he has of asking questions. Stiles groans and throws his hands up,

"I'm not here to waste more time with you" he snaps, moving to walk past Derek to the elevators. Derek, of course, grabs his arm and stops him in his tracks.

"What exactly," he grits out "is up with you."

Stiles knows better than to try and wrench his arm free (he'd probably just end up dislocating it because, isn't that just his luck), so he just gives Derek his worst glare and opens his mouth to say something scathing, but the sound of Cragan angrily calling his name, kills his words before he can speak them.

Immediately, Derek drops his arm and straightens to face the older man as he bears down on them from down the hall where he must have just gotten off the elevators.

"You wanna tell me what your ass is doing back here when you were specifically ordered to stay away?" Cragan asks, voice dangerous and soft. Stiles flounders. Cragan doesn't just look pissed, he looks absolutely livid, and in the face of that much temper, the flimsy excuse he'd concocted in the Cragan-free safety of Lydia's apartment, folds like a house of cards.

"I called him to pick up some files Captain." Derek says, and it takes all of Stiles' effort to not gape in shock at his partner. Cragan turns his angry gaze on Derek and stares him down for a few terrifying minutes before letting up.

"I wasn't born yesterday," he says sternly "and I'd had to have been to not see that you two aren't exactly getting along." his eyes flick between them as he speaks "now do I have to separate you like two kids in a playground? Or do I give you this one last chance to get your heads on straight?"

Stiles feels shame trace red blooms on his cheeks, but he doesn't hang his head like he really wants to, instead he fixes Cragan with his most serious look,

"No sir, that won't be necessary." he says, and looks at Derek who is nodding along before continuing, "we'll...we'll do better."

Cragan eyes them both then visibly relaxes,

"I like you Stilinski," he says tiredly "you too Hale, you're good detectives. But this work requires the two of you to be in-sync and this last minute is the most together I've seen you guys since partnering you up. Now you've said you'll do better, and I'm gonna go ahead and take your word for it. Don't make me regret that."

Lecture finished, Cragan turns to walk away and both Stiles and Derek relax, only to straighten up again when Cragan pauses and turns back around to point at Stiles,

"But you'd better get your ass out of here. I mean it Stilinski, I don't want to see you until Monday!" he barks, then spins back around and strides towards the TARU main office, leaving Derek and Stiles alone again.

"Thanks...for the save back there" Stiles mutters after several awkward moments. Derek shoots him a side-eye and says nothing, walking stiffly but quickly away, back towards the elevators.

"And then there was Stiles." Stiles says bitterly.

Derek might have rescued him back there, but he's clearly still an asshole. One who Stiles has just assured Cragan he could work with again come Monday.

What is his life.

* * *

  
"Well, well, well!" is the first thing out of Antonin Amicus's mouth when he walks into the apartment and finds Asimov bidding Amber farewell.   
"I was beginning to think you'd taken a vow of celibacy, what brought on this bout of uncharacteristic passion brother?" he drawls, after Asimov has compelled the woman to forget the entire evening and placed the money safely in her purse, then sent her off on her way.

"Not everyone feels the need to gorge themselves on the pleasures of the world, brother" Asimov says dryly, "the real delight in them lies in the infrequency of their consumption."

Antonin rolls his eyes and begins to remove the rumpled shirt he's wearing. Asimov moves to the sidebar and begins preparing a drink for himself.

"Have you discovered anything new?" he asks his brother, "has Mother contacted you?"

Antonin heaves a sigh as he tosses his shirt onto the couch and follows it shortly thereafter, flinging himself down against the soft leather. Asimov observes his brother from beyond the rim of his tumbler as he drinks deeply.

Antonin has the good looks that run strong in their family and, of the three brothers,is most often perceives as being "handsome". Asimov himself is no Quasimodo, he knows how he looks, but Antonin has always been the one people lost their heads over. Now as he lies, dark hair spilling artfully over the couch, eyes shut and face at peace, he looks like a picture out of a magazine editorial.

Asimov sees a beast, sated after quenching its bloodlust.

"You've killed someone" he says calmly, placing his glass down on the counter. Antonin smirks, eyes still shut, body still relaxed.

"You haven't a whit of proof as to that claim brother" he drawls.

"I can smell it on you, like the perfume that clings to your hair and skin, like the touch of purple lipstick that you haven't quite managed to wipe from your face. I can smell the blood on you." Asimov feels anger build as he speaks, feels it burn his earlier contentment into ashes.

"And so you've caught me." Antonin says, an edge in his voice, "what now? More nagging? More endless ninnyish blathering? I am not you brother! It suits me to 'gorge myself on the pleasures of the world'" Antonin mimics his brother's earlier words, adopting an obnoxious falsetto. He's on his feet then, anger charging his movements.

"This is life after death! It was supposed to be a glorious future for us, THAT is what we were promised! THAT is what held me together as our father killed me for the first time! Not this. Not a foolish quest that should have ended years ago! I am sick of running around like rats in the night! I am sick of this endless search for something I don't even think I want! I'm ready to live the life our family's greed denied me, and you should wake yourself up and see that this isn't what you want either!"

Asimov doesn't reply, simply steps to the couch and strikes his brother so hard, he breaks the skin and sends the other man flying through the air to land clear across the room.

"You owe everything to our family." Asimov says, voice low and dark "we owe everything to our blood and so to our blood we must surrender everything. Or have you forgotten?"

Antonin stirs groggily, the cut on his cheek healing even as he swipes at the thin trickle of blood there.

"I haven't forgotten," he spits, around a mouth that is red with blood "I can never forget...but this mission has eaten our family whole, and I want to escape the darkness."

He stands with some difficulty and fixes Asimov with a burning look,

"No. I **will** escape the darkness" he proclaims roughly.

Then he's gone.

Asimov scowls fiercely at his clenched fist, then straightens, intending to clean up the mess; but then a knock sounds at the door, halting him dead in his tracks.

Nobody should be visiting them, the foreclosure they had chosen is somewhat remote and the surrounding buildings are uninhabited. Very few people aside from himself and his brother know the location of the house.

He walks to the door, caution making his movements slow and stiff. It could very well be an officer of the Force outside, though he doubts that because, were that the case, they wouldn't have bothered knocking. It could be one of the family members, but they had long since agreed to live with minimal knowledge of each others' locations, for safety. And Antonin had just left. Curiosity wars with caution as he slowly unlocks the door and opens it.

The face on the other side is not one he'd ever thought would be outside his door.

"It's been a long time," he says, long blonde hair glowing in the overhead light of the outside hall.

Asimov scowls.

* * *

 

For the last time in, what he vows will be, a long time, Stile wakes up on Lydia's couch. Groaning at the crick in his neck, he sits up and peers groggily at the sunlight streaming into the room. Of course his mouth is coated with the sickening residue of a night of celebrating and drinking away his sorrows. Similarly, the coffee table is strewn with the previous night's pregame fare. An empty bottle of Stoli, a carton of Dulce de Leche ice cream sitting tipped over in a congealed puddle of sugary sweet goop, miscellaneous bags of chips and, inexplicably, a bowl full of chili peppers; all lay haphazardly on the table. His stomach hurts and he knows that those peppers are not sitting too well with whatever else is sloshing around in there right now.

"Lydia..." he croaks, rubbing crust from his eyes. It's very near 7 am, and he's going to need at least a shower before he could be expected to look and sound human again

There's no reply from Lydia, so Stiles gets up off the couch to go wake her himself. He opens the door, mouth already open to shout something rude, but whatever it was he was going to say dies on his lips when he catches sight of what, or rather who, is on the bed.

"AUFHGH!" he screeches, hands flying up to cover his eyes. Inside the room, Jackson Whittemore scrambles to cover his exposed bits, glaring daggers at Stiles who is still standing in the doorway.

"Dude!" Sties yells, "what is going on!?"

Lydia, cool and collected as ever, rolls her eyes and huffs,

"I would think," she says primly "that it's obvious."

Stiles groans and removes his hands from his eyes, grateful to see that Jackson is covered up,

"when did this happen!?" he asks, hands on hips. Lydia, clearly naked beneath the coverlet she holds to her chest, shrugs,

"you sort of followed me home after the bar, I think you thought you still had to stay here, and well...Jackson followed me home too. He was supposed to go before now," this she says with a significant look at Jackson himself "but I guess he was tired, and you woke up early."

Stiles drags a hand over his face and heaves a sigh,

"well I've just seen an unacceptable amount of your friend's...parts" he says tiredly, "so I'm gonna use your shower and then I'm going to go home and sleep forever...or until I have to go in on Monday"

Lydia sits up, careful to keep the cover over her nakedness, and fixes Stiles with a stern look,

"No no no, you're not allowed to go into the office after you and your partner had that big fight. You have to go see him before that and hash it out!" she says, "it's not good to be seething while you work and that guy needs a swift kick in the pants to teach him teamwork. No offense Jackson."

Jackson, standing with obnoxious confidence for a guy wearing nothing but boxers in front of a virtual stranger, just shrugs,

"whatever" he says.

Stiles groans and throws his hands up in defeat,

"I know, I know! But how am I even supposed to do that? It's not like I know where the guy lives!" he whines. Jackson, now wearing a simple undershirt and looking better than he rightfully should, speaks up,

"who Derek? I know where he lives."

Both Lydia and Stiles turn to look at him and he shrugs again, "what? I know he can be a dick, and it'd be pretty funny to see someone hand his ass to him...verbally anyway. Here," he leans over and finds a pen and paper, scribbling something down and handing it to Stiles, "just tell the doorman you're from the Force and he'll let you in. Good luck Stilinski."

Stiles takes the paper and nods grimly, maybe this Jackson guy isn't as much of a douche as he looks to be. Squaring his shoulders, he heads to the shower,

"okay, I'm gonna shower, and then I'm going to go give that jerk a piece of my mind" he decides. Lydia cheers from the bed and Jackson rolls his eyes.

Derek Hale is about to get the reaming of his life, and Stiles does not mean it in a pleasant way.

* * *

 

The d'Anconia Condos loom grey and pale against the hard, cloudless sky. Cars whip by down 38th as Stiles stands for a moment to gawk. Derek's apartment is nestled between 5th and 6th Avenue, a hop skip and a jump away from Bryant Park and Times Square and basically anything anyone who comes to the city wants to go to. The formidable grey facade aside, the location alone is enough to give him jealousy pangs, which only increase as he steps into the understated elegance of the foyer. Just as Jackson had instructed, he's able to get by the doorman by mentioning his place of work. He passes by a gently trickling, backlit waterfall of sorts and steps into an elevator, pressing the number 9 and waiting to go up.

As he waits to reach Derek's apartment, Stiles' thoughts are abuzz. What to say to the guy to adequately get his feelings across? When he'd been assigned to the case all those weeks ago, he'd been excited to get his revenge on the Amicus brothers and execute justice on them. Now, his passion for the job seems dulled in the face of his partnership. Even though Cragan had warned him about Derek's general unfriendliness, Stiles had thought that given time, they'd get along. At least as partners. In all the long hours they spent together, he'd been able to see slivers of the man that inspired such faith and love in his home team members; but it seemed that Derek's ability to play nice ended there. The man operated on his own level and without any regard to what Stiles could bring to the table. Even though he had technically had Stiles' back when Cragan had been on his ass about being in the office, his show of camaraderie had prefaced an immediate return to his usual rudeness and disregard for manners, and Stiles is a little more than completely over being treated like a nonentity. No matter how much of a big shot California agent Derek is, Stiles is just as qualified to be working the case. It was far past time that Derek knew it too.

The elevator glides to a smooth stop at the 9th floor and Stiles steps out into the plushly carpeted hall. Derek lives in 9F so Stiles turns left and walks along the row of nondescript doors until he reaches Derek's. He takes a deep breath and, before he can chicken out, rings the buzzer.  
When he's been standing for a few minutes, he forgets being nervous and rings the buzzer again, and then again after more minutes tick by. He's about to ring it a fourth time when the door opens and Derek's irritated face greets him.

For a minute, Stiles is speechless, because Derek has answered the door dressed only in basketball shorts. It's obvious, from how he's still breathing hard and how sweat glistens on the swells and dips of his tightly muscled abdomen, that he'd been doing some kind of work out right before answering the bell. The punch of desire that hits Stiles then is as dizzying as it is surprising, and he nearly forgets what he'd come to do, but Derek scowls at him and says,

"what do you want Stilinski?"

and suddenly he remembers. Shaking himself slightly, Stiles puts a scowl of his own on and straightens his spine,

"Good morning Detective Stilinski, what brings you here today? Yes good morning Detective Hale, I'd like to have a word with you if that's alright. That's fine, please come into my home. Thank you, don't mind if I do!" he says sarcastically, elbowing his way past the solid mass of Derek's body and entering the apartment.

Behind him, Derek lets out a long sigh and shuts the door, rounding on him with his mouth open to speak. Stiles cuts him off,

"Before you get to grumping about invasion of space or whatever sourwolf thing you were about to say, I'm going to say what I came here to say"

He waits a beat for Derek to object and then plows on,

"We've been working this case for about two months now," he begins "we spend the majority of every day in each other's company but we barely ever speak. I know we're not here to be best friends and I know you're probably not used to working outside your own team, but Derek, we're **partners**! We're supposed to trust each other and listen to each other, if for nothing else than to work the case better! Do you think I'm just some idiot they saddled you with to be your navigation system through the city? Because if you do, you're wrong. I'm a detective too Derek, and a damn good one or Cragan would never have put me on this case, regardless of what anybody said." he starts to pace, speaking fast to get out what's been plaguing him for weeks "We don't work together, you don't ask me anything or listen to anything I say, you just go around doing what you want and never explaining. What if we needed to give each other cues in a tough spot? You and I barely speak, let alone pick up on each other's movements. I was nearly killed because we can't seem to get our shit together! I've seen cats and dogs that get along better than we do and it can't be like this, not for what we're trying to do."

Stiles takes a deep breath and steps into Derek's personal space, so they're nearly eye-to eye. He keeps his eyes firmly away from Derek's still-glistening body and trains them on his face.

"You're not a kid Derek," Stiles says, "you can't just hide behind the excuse that you're not used to me to explain away bad behavior. Get over your hang-ups and whatever else is eating you about me. This case is bigger than either of us and I'd never forgive myself if we missed something just because you and I can't get our acts together."

Speech over, Stiles steps away and holds out his hand. He waits, in the ringing silence of the apartment, for Derek to make his move. For a long moment, the other man is still, but then he swings his own hand up and grasps Stiles', his big hands warm on Stiles' skin.

"I've been an ass" he says gruffly, "I'll do better."

He squeezes Stiles' hand and drops it, looking away. Stiles smiles, big and goofy, realizing that the almighty stoic, Derek Hale, is well and truly embarrassed about himself.

Like a little kid who's just been told off by his mom, Derek looks anywhere else but at Stiles' face, scrubbing a hand through his hair and looking generally ashamed. Stiles doesn't know whether he wants to coo or burst out laughing at the unexpected adorableness of it all. He steps close again and claps Derek on the shoulder, feeling suddenly much lighter.

"Come on man, no need to make a face like you've been caught with your hand in the cookie jar! Now that's all cleared up, we can work on your people skills! I'll have you rehabbed so quick, the folks back home won't know what to do with you!"

he jokes, and goes to remove his hand and step back, but Derek's hand closes around his wrist, stilling him. Derek looks at him then, expression completely serious,

"I don't think you're just some idiot," he says first, and then "except for when you say words like sourwolf"

Stiles, for the second time, is speechless, but not for long as laughter bubbles up in his throat. He laughs loudly, caving at the middle and bracing a hand against the hardness of Derek's chest. Hearing the World's Most Serious Guy say a word as ridiculous as "sourwolf" is actually more than Stiles can take at the moment.

"Sorry, I just...." he begins saying, but the words die in his mouth when he looks up and sees Derek staring at him with an expression that sucks the air right out of Stiles' lungs.

"Well..." he says, around a suddenly dry tongue.

"I should...go..."

He tries to leave, but his limbs, always awkward at their best, tangle helplessly around themselves and, for the second time in an embarrassingly short interval, Stiles finds himself tripping....

...right into Derek's arms.

This time he's braced tight against Derek's chest, arms trapped between them. For a heartbeat, they're both completely still, then Stiles makes the mistake of looking into Derek's eyes again.

Even though he's fully aware of Derek's werewolf nature, outside of actually seeing him wolf-out, Stiles tends to forget the animal part of the man. Now, looking up into Derek's eyes, it's impossible to miss.

"Ah...." Stiles murmurs, faintly, breathlessly.

Derek's arms tighten around him, inching them closer, impossibly closer. His eyes are molten, dark gaze heavy with raw intent. Like a wolf stalking its prey.

Stiles swallows and Derek's eyes go to where his adams apple bobs in his throat.

"Derek..." Stiles says in a breathy whisper. His heartbeat hammers against his ribs, he can feel sweat beading at his temples. The proximity to Derek has sent his (long-neglected) libido into overdrive and it's all Stiles can do to will away his body's reaction.

Derek's eyes are trained on Stiles' own as he slides one hand up to grasp the back of Stiles' neck and moves the other to rest splayed near the small of his back. They stay gazing at each other as Derek's thumb presses hot and insistent, stroking against the side of Stiles' neck, all the way down to his collarbone. Stiles shudders at the sensation, splays his hands wide against Derek's chest and arches into the touch. His breaths are short and stuttering. His skin is on fire. He's losing his mind.

Then Derek's phone rings.

It's like coming up from being underwater, the ringing doesn't even register with Stiles immediately. By the time he realizes what the noise is, Derek has gone to answer it with one hand. His other is still spread against Stiles' back, keeping him in place.

"What" he says flatly, and Stiles has to envy the relatively undisturbed quality of his voice. He couldn't talk to anyone as he was at the moment, it would be immediately apparent that something was up.

"Wait, wait, what? WHAT?" Derek barks into the phone, eyes flaring suddenly red as he disentangles himself from Stiles and paces away. Stiles has never seen anyone get so angry so fast.

"Go to the HQ, just GO, and I'll meet you there. Try to stay out of sight, for god's sake I told you not to go alone! Shut up, now, I don't want to hear it. Just go. I'll be there as soon as possible."

He hangs up and takes a deep breath; when he looks at Stiles again, his eyes are normal.

"I have to go to HQ, you should probably come too" he growls. Stiles, now fully shaken out of his earlier lust haze, feels his work side kick in. He straightens his posture even as dread slinks into his belly.

"What happened? It's not another murder is it?" he asks. Derek sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, looking suddenly tired.

"No. At least not that I know of. But we've got someone on their way to HQ right now to give us what might be the key to our case."

Excitement lights a fire in Stiles' eyes for a moment before he realizes that Derek still does not look very pleased.

"What's the problem then, you look like someone's just died" he says, and Derek laughs bitterly,

"probably someone did. A few times at least" he mutters darkly, before spinning around and striding to his bedroom.

"Hold on let me get dressed, we'll go to the station when I'm done." he calls, and Stiles keeps his eyes away from the sliver of room he can see from where he stands. Either Derek is an exhibitionist or he really doesn't care about who sees him naked because the bedroom door is wide open.

A few minutes later, Derek emerges, looking unfairly attractive in his work clothes, for someone who had just been covered in sweat that is.

"Ok let's go" he says shortly, and then he's striding to the door without pausing.

Stiles rushes to follow him, confusion bubbling in his stomach.

Even though Derek had explained, he still feels like he's missing something big. That and the fact that, not long ago, the two of them were locked in what romance novels would term a "passionate embrace" and that had ended abruptly, without any kind of talk. What did it mean? What would they do from then?Stiles itches to know, but he also has work to think of, and that's bigger than the giant "something" that now looms between them.

He'll add it to the already confusing pile of emotions that pretty much defines his partnership to Derek, and analyze it later. For now, there seems to be something big going on in the case, and medical leave or not, Stiles is going to be there to find out what it is.

 

**Author's Note:**

> What'd you guys think? I hope you'll leave me some comments (I love love love those) with your thoughts, concerns, criticisms, etc. and please visit me on tumblr, I'm thelpm.tumblr.com for all you gorgeous people who care to drop by and leave me a (virtual) kiss! 
> 
> OH! A 501(c)(3) charity is one that has tax-exempt status. Basically people who donate to them get tax benefits and the like. You also file a 1023 form with the IRS and there's a whole bunch of obnoxious hoo-hah that goes into it.


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